Burned
by tanjobi-o-koete
Summary: Beyond Birthday wakes up in the prison hospital and contemplates his decisions. Trigger Warnings: Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, and Mentions of Attempted Suicide.


**A\N: This is just a quick drabble I wrote shortly after starting my Beyond Birthday blog on Tumblr. It's from Beyond's perspective, containing his thoughts after waking up in the prison hospital. **

**Trigger Warnings: Self-Harm, Attempted Suicide, and Suicidal Thoughts. **

* * *

Florescent lights shine down from the ceiling, forcing my eyes to close before I wind up half blind from that searing, bluish white light. Though, when I think about it, being half blind could potentially be a wonderful experience for me. Then again, when I think about it some more, what's the point now? A lifetime of staring at those cursed dates—seventeen long years of watching the numbers and counting down the days until death arrived—and the _one_ date I wanted to see they denied me. That critical date that made the difference between success and failure they denied me. My own date of death they _denied _me. If only I had been able to see it, I could have waited until the time was right to carry out the murders. I could have succeeded. But instead I failed. I failed and now I'm laying in a police hospital bed, unable to move, barely able to breathe, with no chance of escape, and I couldn't even manage to-

…

Well, even if I did decide I wanted to blind myself, it would take too much effort. So I'll keep my eyes closed and move on to other topics. It's not as if I have anything to do besides think.

Hmm... will I survive? Prison, that is. I've never been a very physically strong person, and while I've learned many forms of self-defense and have a naturally repulsive aura that keeps people away, this is not Wammy's House or the 'bad side' of a town or city. This is prison. I just might die within the next month. Infuriating, considering that means I was a mere thirty days off.

How depressing. Time for another topic change.

I'm thirsty. Incredibly thirsty. I feel like there's a little, miniature dessert inside my throat, and it burns and aches and scratches like nothing I've ever felt. But who would I ask for a drink? Nobody's here, and even if they were, I have to wonder if the officers and nurses would spare someone like me a drink.

_Would you spare me a drink?_

No, probably not. I doubt you even know or care where I am and what state I'm in. After Naomi figured me out and arrested me, she no doubt reported right back to you, and you moved on to the next case at hand. You'll never think of me again—if you do, it will be negative, I'm sure—and you certainly wouldn't give me a drink. Not the criminal scum you hunt down every day. Not the enemy of the justice you so dutifully protect and enforce. Not the second miserable failure of your copy house. Not me. Not ever.

No, you wouldn't give me a drink. You wouldn't even give me a passing glance.

Though, when I think about it, would I want you to? Impersonating you is a serious crime. If you show up here, it just might be to give me a fate worse than any judge legally could. Then again, when I think about it more, that could still be better than prison. I would be acknowledged by you, be in the same building as you, and you would have to put me under surveillance so you would be watching me. Would torture be worth it? Hmm… would it? Would it? Would it? I'd have to think some more and calculate—my brain is only functioning at fifty-five percent as it stands.

Would you really do that, though? Interrogate me? Fill me up with chemicals and watch me fall apart? Strap me to a table and deprive me of my senses until I crumbled into a million pieces? Torture me until I was so raw in my throat I couldn't even scream anymore? Maybe you would. Maybe you should.

Maybe if you did, you'd finally feel enough pity to give me that drink.

I sigh, the movement sending sparks of pain over my body and drawing a low moan from my throat. My whole body hurts, and I'm almost afraid to breathe in again. I can just see my skin bursting apart and spilling my organs over the bed. That's how fragile and broken I feel.

I hate it.

I hate existing, really. Even if I couldn't create the unsolvable case, why couldn't fate just let me _die? _I have nothing to live for. I don't want anything anymore. I have no goals, nothing to look forward to besides prison and death, and no one to come and visit me.

Alone again, naturally.

I would laugh, but it would hurt, and I haven't practiced my laugh in a while.

I don't want to think anymore. Every subject I try to go to winds up being more depressing than the one before, and it's far too exhausting to deal with it all. But how can I stop thinking? So much time spent perfecting my deductive abilities and reasoning, endless hours spent thinking, training myself to never _not _be thinking and suddenly…? No, I can't do it. I'll have to be unconscious. But the pain and my ever-cognitive mind keeps me awake, so I have to force it somehow.

Gritting my teeth, I begin to move my arms, ignoring the pain to the best of my ability and pulling myself into a sitting position. "Ah…" It's excruciating—I feel like my skin is being ripped right off of my muscles—but I push through and begin to turn, swinging my legs out over the edge of the bed. "A-ah! Hnn… hhh...nck…" My feet hit the floor and I whimper, doubling over and trying not to vomit as the nausea builds in my stomach.

Just a bit more, and you'll knock me out, won't you? You'll give me peace. My good friend, suffering. Never failing, forever standing by my side—true to the end.

I let out a soft shout, unable to hold in the sounds of agony as I force myself to cross the room, a blurred table calling to me from the far wall. I stagger slightly, but I'm not deterred. When have I ever been? I'm stubborn, if nothing else.

My hands come down clumsily on the smooth surface, fingers curling around the edge to give me a good grip. The blisters that cover my fingers begin to burst, blood and pus smearing over the table and causing my hold to slip slightly. Again, I'm undeterred. I only hold tighter, spreading my legs slightly and doing my best to aim in the disoriented state I'm in.

The door to the room opens, and I heard the nurse shout at me_—Mr. Birthday!—_but all I do is turn my head and smile at her. Her body is nothing but a disfigured blob of varying hues, but I know she's coming for me, so I face forward, give a painful little giggle—

—and slam my head down on the corner.

Blackness surges over my vision immediately, and I barely feel myself hit the floor.

I was right the first time I thought about it.

Being blind is a wonderful experience for me.

It's only a shame it's not permanent.


End file.
